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I had to be a better protector.
“I have to use the restroom,” she said abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”
I nodded and she got up. We didn’t go anywhere anymore without at least six of my men stationed nearby.
It ate at me knowing that the organization I built was slowly slipping away. Between Matteo and Nico’s shenanigans and the random idiots that threatened my business every day, I was starting to feel that maybe it was time for a change.
The problem was, I didn’t know how to change. I was who I was. My father had made sure of that from the very moment I was born.
“Hey, little brother,” Matteo said sliding into the booth that Mya had just vacated.
This didn’t make any sense. How had he gotten here?
“What are you doing here and what do you want?”
I kept my eyes trained on the doors that Mya had drifted through.
He reached for a piece of chicken on Mya’s plate and chewed it, his mouth wide open. The man was simply uncouth.
“Still like these fancy places, I see.” He stretched out his legs and looked around. There was bitterness in his tone and when he turned to look me in my eyes, all I saw there was hate.
Nothing had changed.
How many years had it been since I’d last seen him? Two? Three? He was turning gray around his temples.
Just a few years ago, his hair had been dark like mine. He was still stocky. He reminded me of a bulldog, but with fewer wrinkles and no personality.
“Answer the question,” I said leaning toward him.
“I just came to talk. I figured now that you’re married, you might consider spending more time with that little wife of yours and let me take over for you.”
I laughed humorlessly. “Go away, Matteo.”
He drummed his finger on the table, as he always did when he was irritated. He’d been doing it since we were kids. He’d hated me for that long.
He pulled a cigar from his coat pocket. “You want one?”
I didn’t bother to answer. “You can’t smoke here.”
“Oh yeah? Are you going to stop me?”
I took the cigar from his mouth and was tempted to shove it up his ass but resisted the urge.
“If you don’t have anything useful about family operations to share, move along.”
“Family operations?”
“I built this?—”
“Dad built it!” he said, slamming his hand down on the table, disrupting other diners nearby.
Typical, Matteo.
When he couldn’t get what he wanted he made a scene. “Is your tantrum over now?” I mocked him. “Do you feel better now? If you’re done acting like a toddler, I would suggest you leave.”
To my surprise, he did exactly that. “I think you’re right. Rumor has it, some important people want you gone. I would hate to get caught in the crossfire. Take care of yourself, lil’ bro.”
He stood up then and dusted himself off. It was a stalling technique. There was nothing on his perfect suit.